The Afterthoughts
by Lexie-H
Summary: In the aftermath of the war, more than one son brings a new partner home for approval. The question on everyone's lips is "Who?" Percy/Audrey, Draco/Astoria, George/Angelina, Luna/Rolf, Hannah/Neville ... For everyone who wondered what JKR was thinking...
1. Audrey

**Disclaimer: All characters and setting belong to JKR. I just play with her ideas**

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Audrey _who_? 

That's what they were thinking when they met her. She remembered it clear as day, polite surprise etched insincerely across their faces.  
_What happened to Penelope_? became the next logical progression, and that one seemed to be directed to her. Audrey could offer no explanations, but the weight of comparison lay heavy in her thoughts. Because really, they were right – what _had_ happened to Penelope?  
Percy remained tight-lipped; offended that anyone – his family, his friends – would second-guess him. The most important thing, he repeated pompously every time, was that he was in love with Audrey.

The subtext: Penelope? I don't want to talk about it.

But Audrey did, and because she was Audrey she was allowed to persist. If she was going to be an afterthought – because really, upon further consideration everyone found her lovely and perfect for Percy – then Audrey wanted to know why.

She asked him one night, several years later, on finding herself alone with him in the yard of the Burrow. Molly had herded Hermione and Ginny inside after dinner, because the last thing anyone wanted was for them to catch a chill – chills were never good for babies – and everyone else had followed, scooping up children and animals and plates, because Molly was the matriarch, and everyone did as they were told.  
Audrey had a great respect for Molly.  
The back-door closed with a soft thud, and then, they were alone.

"Perce, what ever happened to Penelope?"

He stood by the low stonewall, gazing idly into the field beyond. He'd never brought Penelope home to his family; but Audrey was different, special, and although he could not explain it, for the first time in many years Percy found himself desperately seeking his family's approval.  
He shook his head sadly at the night sky.

"Nothing happened. We just…. Fell apart. It happens sometimes, so I hear," he replied absently, slipping an arm around her and drawing close. "The thing is – I didn't really mind when we did. You, though – I'd mind if you slipped away."

She knew what he meant. Together, they watched the silent field, stars twinkling knowingly overhead.  
Sometimes, things happened for a reason, however nonsensical they appeared at the time.  
The past was irrelevant – only the here and now mattered.

And perhaps, some things were just meant to be.

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**Note: Because I was thinking about the outcry against JKR revealing more information than she needed to, and it occurred to me that Audrey should get her own say in the matter…**

**Very random little ficlet, hope you like it! What do you think?**


	2. Astoria

**Disclaimer: All characters and setting belong to JKR. I just play with her ideas**

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Astoria_ who?_

That's what they'd all said, the first time he'd spoken of her, even though she'd shared their common room every night for the past six years. But that was all right.

Astoria was used to being invisible.

She found there was a certain comfort in anonymity; it leant itself to nights passed in the common room uninterrupted. Anonymity meant she wasn't bullied, wasn't bothered or stared at. No one minded her, and so she was free to do as she liked. It had a lot to recommend itself.

Astoria knew that deep down, he craved that sort of life, too. The quiet life, free of interference and expectation. A life where he wasn't judged for his name, wasn't recognized in the streets; a life that he'd never been privy to, before.  
Ironically, he was the first person to truly see her. She'd felt a thrill at his cold, grey gaze, late at night, the year the war erupted. They were the only two left in the common room, although he hadn't noticed this, and she'd sat in silence, watching him pace.  
Suddenly, though, he'd frozen. No one had ever noticed her presence before so fully – it was as though she passed through life with a Disillusionment charm upon her head, trickling through her brown hair like egg. With one look, though, he'd broken that spell.

"We're all we need, just us," he'd told her once, his smile rare and full of affection.

He loved her, he said, for her gentleness, and the way she smiled, just for him. The way she understood him better than any one else, and the way she'd managed this without needing to try.  
They were effortless, she and him, and for her part, Astoria reveled in the fact that she, the forgotten girl, had unlocked a side of the infamous Draco Malfoy that no one else had access to.

Of course, Pansy Parkinson had screeched and ranted, because she'd tried so hard for so many years to win him, and in the end it had all been for nothing. As Pansy raved, though, she looked right through her as though she didn't exist, which just proved that nothing had changed; not really. Anyway, Astoria didn't care: she'd won Draco's love without really trying, and to her that victory was her sweetest.  
Draco had shut Pansy up after a while, with nothing but a crisply raised eyebrow and a wry drawl: "You've got to be kidding me, Parkinson."

That was what his father had said too, she knew, but his mother had simply smiled and ushered them into their home, leaving Lucius Malfoy on the threshold, startled.  
She knew he'd never object to her family: the Greengrasses were of old Slytherin blood, and as pure as the Malfoys, even if their participation in the Second War had been more quietly passive, true to their family motto, _silentium est rutilus_.  
No, the objection was more that Draco hadn't fallen in love with a flashy female. Astoria had none of his mother's graceful beauty, or his Aunt's striking looks, but the way she was suited her just fine. Draco called her beautiful anyway, and she was beautiful because he loved her.  
Sometimes, Draco told her, people were just meant to be, because they balanced each other, and balance was always important.

And if Astoria could move through life in the shadows, while her husband stole the limelight, then that suited her just fine.

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** Because the response to Audrey's chapter was overwhelming, and because when she first appeared in the Epilogue, Astoria was near-invisible beside Draco, and after a series full of outstanding, outspoken female characters, I figured she was entitled to her own say, too. **

**Thank you so much taking the time to read. Feedback and opinions are most welcome, as always: I'd love to hear what you think!  
**


	3. Angelina

**Disclaimer: ****All characters and setting belong to JKR. I just play with her ideas**

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_Angelina_ _who?_

Actually: Angelina Johnson, ex-chaser and captain to the Gryffindor House Quidditch team, member of Dumbledore's Army; fought in the Battle of Hogwarts. Survived.

_Wait – didn't she used to date Fred? _

"Sort of. I went to the Yule Ball with him when we were in Sixth Year, and uh…"  
She wasn't sure if 'date' was right: they'd danced together at the Yule Ball, and she knew that Fred had liked her quite a bit, and that she'd liked him too - but she and George didn't really speak about it, because it wasn't relevant to their relationship. Fred was relevant, but not _that._

_So, Angelina - why George? _

Out of all the questions, that was the one Angelina hated most. After all, how could she justify love?

She tried to, anyway, because if there was one thing to know about Angelina, it was that she'd try anything once:  
Because he was George, and he could make her laugh, and because he didn't have to explain anything, and because he never apologized for the past.  
Because she could make _him_ laugh, and because she understood him without needing to ask too many questions, and because there was nothing more she enjoyed than the nights they spent curled up on the lurid purple lounge in his flat, just talking.

Anyone who knew Angelina Johnson understood how much she hated justifying herself. It irked her that no one seemed to take their relationship seriously until George proposed.  
'Just a Fred-thing,' they'd said, as though they were nothing but an afterthought to grief; as though Angelina and George hadn't been friends Before, too; as though they were trying to pretend to be something they weren't.

Fred's death had had a few unusual repercussions, but the assumption Angelina wasn't allowed to fall in love with George was perhaps the oddest yet. There was also the strange looks people gave George when he smiled, as though it wasn't his place to ever feel happiness again, but Angelina figured that anyone who expected _that_ didn't know him very well at all.

And anyone who knew George Weasley knew he didn't like being whispered about behind his back. He was the sort of person who found that sort of thing rude; assuming. That everyone saw grief, not love, as the foundation of them as a couple frustrated him no end, and although it did go a long way to explaining why the first thing everyone always asked when they saw him had become a variation on "How are you coping?" it didn't do much to restrain him from sending a good hex toward the unlucky questioner.

Angelina had been lucky enough to witness that one, once. She'd never seen so many boils on one nose.

"Don't mind them," George had told her, the first time he brought her home as his official girlfriend, because his mum hadn't realized how wide her eyes had grown, and Charlie didn't seem to notice that he was staring.  
Ginny had hugged first George, then Angelina, tightly, and while her movement had managed to break the spelled silence, Angelina hadn't been able to shake her discomfort.  
Still unperturbed, George had grinned and offered her a formal introduction to the family, which was perfectly ridiculous as everyone knew exactly who she was, but the thing that Angelina loved about the Weasleys was how well they knew their son, and how easily they'd recognized his plea for a fresh start. A straight-faced Ron had immediately responded with how pleased he was to meet her, and how much he'd heard about her, and had she met his wife? And after they'd all finished laughing about that, everyone had continued on, as though it was perfectly normal for George to bring her home; his dead twin's sort-of-ex-girlfriend.

In truth, she hoped it was because they remembered that George wasn't the sort of person to make rash decisions, because they remembered that _he_ hadn't been the impulsive twin.

He'd been grieving a long time, and she knew they wanted to protect him, but George didn't want their protection, because Angelina wasn't asking him to be his brother, and she knew he wouldn't have tried, anyway. Fred was Fred, and George was George, and at the end of the day, all she wanted George to be – all he _could_ be - was himself.

"All I want, George Weasley, is you," she'd told him once, and he'd told her that for the first time in a long time, he felt as if he knew himself again. And then, he'd grinned, and added that he knew there was a reason he loved her, too.

Angelina hoped that George's family could understand that sometimes, things happened; and in fact, she felt it was a pretty reasonable request, since several the Weasley marriages already stood as testament to that truth.  
After all, it wasn't as though anyone chose who they fell for.

If the world was going to sit by and watch them, him and her, and offer disapproving commentary, so be it.

The one thing Angelina knew was that she refused to apologise, and that George refused to apologise. After all, _who did they think they were?_

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**Because I'm enjoying the experience of giving these characters a voice, and because Angelina struck me as someone who was fairly sensible and straightforward in canon, and not the sort to settle.**

**There's three more installments to come, _when_ I find the time to write them! Suggestions are very welcome (who do you want to see, here?) and feedback is **_**always**_** appreciated! Thank you very much for taking the time to read!**


	4. Luna

**Disclaimer: All characters and setting belong to JKR. I just play with her ideas**

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Luna_ who_?

Art Scamander folded his son's letter, frowning. He couldn't help it; her name niggled at something in the back of his memory, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"He's bringing a girl home!" he murmured finally, still frowning.

Junetta's eyes lit up across the dining table and she clasped her hands together with unrestrained excitement. "Oh, at last! I'd been so worried, you know. Oh, this is wonderful news! When can we expect them?"

"Next month," he replied absently, caressing the parchment thoughtfully.

Rolf wrote that they'd met at a conference in Rio in August last year, and that she'd approached him after his talk on Peruvian Vipertooth Dragon culling. He seemed excited to have met another English naturalist, and wasn't it a lucky coincidence they were both English? Calling her _one of the most brilliant minds he'd ever met_ sounded promising, but all Art hoped for was that she wasn't some airhead floozy. At least she didn't appear to be a gold-digger after the famed Scamander fortune - not like the other girls had been.

At any rate, Rolf sounded enchanted, and that was certainly a first; like his grandfather before him, Rolf had always been infinitely more interested in traveling the world in search of magical beasts than in society and dating.

The clink of china brought him back; Art shook his head to clear it of thoughts of Rolf and some daydreaming waif. He had to trust his son's judgment, he _had_ to.

"I think I might go and visit Father," Art murmured, standing. He moved around the table to kiss his wife's forehead fondly. "Tell him the good news."

...

With a soft _pop!_ Art Apparated into his father's study. As always, it was a jumble of scholarly books and taxidermied creatures – as though the old family library had collided with a dusty old museum.

Newton Scamander himself was over by the window, bent over a class panel case home to some of his most favourite Glumbumble specimens. In the background, Art could hear a Jobberknoll call playing on the old gramophone.

His father hadn't even looked up; in fact, Art wondered if Newt had even heard his arrival over the regurgitating-bird call.

"Good morning, Father!" he called down the room; Newt jumped. _Just as I'd expected_, Art thought, smiling wryly.

"Artemis!" Newt murmured in surprise, hobbling forward to grasp his son's hand. "What a pleasant surprise! I wasn't expecting you til Tuesday, and it's only… Oh dear me," he murmured, blinking as he looked around, puzzled.

"Wednesday," Art supplied gently, before brushing this aside. "I'm early, yes - I have news. Rolf's written to he's coming home next month, and that he's bringing a _witch_ with him."

Newt peered at his son through his spectacles, eyes widening. His mouth stretched into a pleasantly surprised smile.

"Ah, at last, at last! Oh, I must call your mother - excuse me – Poppy, my love! And what is her name, Artemis?"

Watching his father's head disappear momentarily into the flames, Art paused. "Luna Lovegood."

Newt reappeared, straightening himself slowly. Art moved forward to help his father upright.

"What did you say her name was?" he murmured absently, gazing off toward the window.

"Luna Lovegood, Father."

The old man froze, turning back to his son, a slightly horrified look in his eyes.

"_Lovegood?_" he responded sharply.

Art inclined his head. "Indeed; that was my first reaction. However, Rolf tells me she's a respected naturalist in her own right. I do wonder, but there you have it: the boy's in love with a-"

"_Lovegood_," Newt repeated with a shudder, apparently lost in his own thoughts.

Suddenly, something occurred to him. "You know of her?" Art guessed shrewdly.

"Merlin, Artemis! Don't you remember that nutter who used to owl me every morning about those bleeding creatures he'd discovered? What were they called? Nigglers? Never mind, anyway. Lovegood, _his_ name was. Xenophilius Lovegood!"

Art's own eyes widened just a fraction. The memory was returning to him with the force of a small, brilliant yellow coloured explosion, just as his mother entered the room. Porpentina's eyes swept between her husband and son, puzzled by their expressions.

"Newton, my dear?" she prompted. "Arty?"

Newt simply shook his head; Art gazed at his mother without really seeing her. Porpentina took a step closer, frowning.

Art winced as the foggy refuse of his mind offered a rare moment of pure, unadulterated clarity.

Nargles.

_Lovegood._

_Luna._

Rolf.

Art swore.

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**Note: So…. First off, a big sorry to anyone who's stuck around long enough to wait for this update. I appreciate your patience! Unfortunately, life got in the way. **

**Anyway - I wanted to do something a little different this time. I hope you liked it! Feedback is always appreciated, and thanks for taking the time to read.  
**


	5. Hannah

**Disclaimer: All characters, settings and ideas borrowed from the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling. I just play with her ideas.**

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"Hannah _who_?"

Neville Longbottom could feel the heat rising in his face; surely his ears would be bright red, right now. He cast a furtive glance towards the bar, but the pretty blonde barwoman hadn't seemed to notice.

"Hannah Abbott, Gran. You _must_ know about the Abbotts. She lost her Mum in the second war. We went to school together."

He spoke low and quickly, hoping to get this conversation over and done with, with as little fuss as possible, but even that was too much to ask. Augusta Longbottom was nearly deaf, and demanded he repeat everything again, loudly. Neville sighed. The moth-eaten stuffed vulture on her Going-Out hat glared at him imperiously, and he had to work hard to school his features into an expression of tried patience, then.

It was that damned hat's fault he was even _having_ this conversation. Hannah had, somewhat miraculously, clearly remembered it from the third year class so many years ago, when Professor Lupin had inspired him to dress his Professor Snape Boggart in it. As this story had never actually made it home to his Gran, Neville was understandably reluctant to explain exactly why the bargirl had caught his eye while taking down their orders, and winked. It had been as though they shared the same thought for a brief instant – something like suppressed amusement, really – and then she'd turned away hurriedly, flustered, and he –

He'd made the mistake of looking straight into his formidable grandmother's eyes. What had followed had been an impressive lecture on upholding the good name of Longbottom and not flirting with 'barmaid floosies'. After all, _his dear father would never have embarrassed her so, rest his soul_. Neville closed his eyes for the best part of it, sure that the silence in the packed barroom could only be attributed to the fact that no one – _no one_ – dared to interrupt. Augusta Longbottom may have been deaf, but she was far from blind, and even when he'd found the patience to interrupt with, "Relax, Gran, I wasn't flirting, I _know_ Hannah," it hadn't been enough to satisfy her. At least, by this time, the usual babble of other people's conversations had resumed.

Neville couldn't have been more grateful that Hannah had the good sense to send someone else out with their food, after that. He'd intended to apologise when he went to the bar to pay, but his Gran had shrewdly insisted on accompanying him, the horrid old thing, and Hannah had seen fit to make herself scarce then, too.

Right there and then, as the man who was taking care of their bill cast him an sympathetic look, Neville swore he was _never_ going to take his Gran out for lunch again; also, that he was going to steal that ridiculous hat of hers' and most probably burn it.

"You look tired, Gran," was all that he'd said after they left the Cauldron, and without any further ado he'd taken her hand and turned on the spot, side-along-side Apparating her home.

Augusta Longbottom had never seen her son behave so rudely. Neville guided her inside, flinching at the word 'son,' which seemed to confirm she was losing her mind. He bore through the subsequent lecture with such patience he was surprised – that was, until she spoke the magic words. Neville couldn't hold himself accountable for his actions much, after that.

"_My Frank_ would never have manhandled his mother around London," Augusta had finished hotly, and Neville had felt as though someone had kicked him in the stomach.

He stood there, clutching at it for a few moments, and she'd grown silent then, apparently under the misapprehension that she'd won. He could feel her scathing gaze burning up at him still, but the stillness of the house was merciful, and exactly what he'd needed to pull himself together again.

Straightening, Neville felt a tiny thrill beginning to spread through his body.

"I'm not your Frank," was all he'd said, slowly, but it had been enough to wipe the ridiculous expression from her face. "I'm not your son, and I never have been, _Gran_."  
He said the last word so spitefully he surprised himself.

"I've never been so ashamed." He was building up now – Neville could feel it, and it was strange in that instant how little he actually _cared_ about the consequences of his words. It wasn't like _she_ ever worried about such things, after all! "There is _no_ excuse for behaving so appallingly, Gran – you were downright rude, and you have _no right_…" He stopped to draw a deep breath; she watched him, stunned. "I've a mind never to take you out again. Certainly I can't stand talking to you for a moment longer. I'm leaving."

He turned and left the room, determined to see this through before she spoke and his resolve wavered. Nonetheless, he paused on the front threshold and muttered, "Love you, Gran."

Neville Longbottom – _Professor_ Neville Longbottom, he reminded himself proudly – was certain he'd never felt so liberated in his life. Thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets cheerfully, he strolled off down the street, and after glancing around carelessly, Apparated right there and then on the street corner – _in broad daylight!_

It was with this same, newfound sense of daring that he found himself being carried across the large, cheerfully lit pub, directly toward the bar where _she_ was pouring drinks.

"Hannah."

He said her name somewhat breathlessly, and she glanced up, startled and confused.

"Neville?"

Neville swallowed, ruefully feeling his confidence waver, just a little. He hadn't thought this through at all… But no, he'd see it through. It was a matter of pride, now. He cleared his throat and made the effort to meet her eyes.

"Hannah, I wanted to apologise."

Her expression softened, and for a moment she was the same, sweet-faced girl in pigtails who'd offered to share her dragon-hide gloves with him in Herbology the day he'd forgotten to bring his own.

"Oh," she said softly. "Hold on a minute, will you?"

And then she'd turned and walked away, and he'd been sure that was it, but the sinking feeling had vanished abruptly when she'd returned a moment later, a young bargirl on her heels who picked up the drinks she'd been pouring and vanished without a word. It was then he noticed Hannah had removed her spotless apron, and stood only in her blouse and skirt, smiling shyly at him.

"And what would you like to drink, Neville?" was the next thing to come from her lips, and she'd fixed two Gillywaters with a quiet efficiency before stepping out from behind the bar and guiding him down the back hallway to a private parlour.

Only once they were seated did she allow their former conversation to resume.

"Neville," she said gently, imploring him with her eyes as she placed a tentative hand on his. "Your grandmother is an old woman, and she obviously loves you very much. Really, I've had worse said to me since I took over from Old Tom. Please don't be too angry with her, not on my account."

Neville stared into his glass, abashed. It had been a long time since he'd felt anyone's hand in his own. Then, quietly, "But I _want_ to be angry with her, Hannah – even more so, if you won't be. Someone has to stand up for you." He'd smiled a little at his own, warped sense of gallantry, and far from being offended, she'd laughed softly too. And, as an afterthought, "Besides, I'm twenty-seven years old. It's time I got around to standing up to her."

"Well then," was all she said, and then – "And how's Hogwarts these days? I hear Professor McGonagall finally retired last year."

Neville nodded easily, grateful that she'd offered him an easier topic. "Yes –she did, and I think she was a little relieved to go, in the end. Hogwarts … never changes much at all, thank Merlin. It's just how I remember it, except for a few little changes." He drew himself up proudly now, unable to keep the lopsided grin from his face. "You're actually speaking to the new Head of Gryffindor House."

Hannah's blue eyes widened with kind surprise, and he could see in her smile such genuine pleasure for him that words became unnecessary. It was lovely, really, to just sit and talk like himself again – not as Augusta's grandson or Professor Longbottom, but just plain old Neville. Her palm still covered his hand, and he turned his over now, so that they sat palm to palm. She looked down, surprised, and resolving to be bold one last time, he couldn't stop himself from meeting her eyes.

"Hannah, would you like to have dinner with me?"

It hardly mattered that they'd had to stay at the Cauldron, because Hannah wasn't entirely confident in her new staff yet and felt understandably reluctant to leave them to their own devices. The food had been marvelous – even better than lunch – and their conversation had flowed easily, as though they'd fallen back into old times with no more effort than it took for Hannah to smile so sweetly.

"Thank you, Neville," she'd said at the end, and he'd wanted to ask if she'd like to do this again sometime, but she'd leant up and kissed him on the cheek and he hadn't managed to find the words, after that.

"How do you fancy bringing your Gran along to lunch next Sunday?" She'd asked _for_ him instead; reading his alarm, she'd laughed. "So I can introduce myself properly," she'd added, and still in a daze at being found amusing, Neville had nodded eagerly.

"I'd love to," he'd managed, and then he'd bent his head to kiss _her_ cheek – _or had it been her lips, really?_ – good night too…

Neville Longbottom found himself standing on the pavement outside without quite being able to recall how he'd managed to get there. In a daze, he half considered going to his grandmother's house to gloat, but no … because he was going to introduce her properly to Hannah next Sunday, and the three of them would start again. Gathering himself, he turned and Apparated instead to Hogsmeade to begin the long, relaxed walk back up to the castle.

_Perhaps, he'd even let Gran wear that ridiculous vulture hat of hers' again…_

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**The longest installment of The Afterthoughts by a long way! Hope you enjoyed it, and I'd love to hear your thoughts, as always.  
Thanks for reading,**

**Lexie**


	6. Romania

**Disclaimer: All characters, settings and ideas borrowed from the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling. I just play with her ideas.**

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"So, who is she?"

Charlie blinked, surprised. "Who's who, Mum?"

Molly's hands squeezed his, her eyes shining. "Your surprise. Who is she?"

_Oh_.

Charlie felt his stomach plummet; right at this very second, he was quite sure it had already reached six-foot-under and wasn't planning on stopping.

"Mum, I _never said_ my surprise was a she," he began slowly.

Talking to his mother about relationships (or rather, his lack of one) was generally something Charlie approached with the kind of wary respect he afforded to the Romanian Longhorns on the dragon reservations back home. His mother had been known to react fiercely when it came to her children and their chosen partners: there was the Loving Fierce that she had afforded to Harry and Hermione and Audrey (particularly dangerous, those iron-hold hugs); the Baffled Fierce she'd offered to Angelina; and the Just Plain Fierce she'd made Fleur suffer through.

Molly blinked, momentarily thrown. Then, with an alarmingly knowing twinkle in her eye, she reached up to kiss her second-born on the cheek, stroking it fondly.

"No, of course you didn't, my love. When are _they_ getting here, then?"

_They_?

What, did she think he was bringing an entire family? Or – an _orgy_?

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Mum. I don't have anyone to surprise you with."

Molly had turned back to the stove to supervise the potatoes boiling and the roast-pot simmering; Charlie thought he saw her shoulders slump a little.

"My darling, you don't have to be ashamed of who you are," she murmured softly, sadly. In fact, she sounded so sad that Charlie was compelled to reach his arms around her and hug her tightly.

"I'm not ashamed of anything, Mum. What would I be ashamed of?"

Molly gave him that same, knowing look and sighed.

_Oh_.

It clicked, again. Suddenly, Charlie felt the blood rushing to his cheeks – damned Weasley complexion! – one step behind his understanding. He fought the urge to laugh and curse, and hated that he was always two steps behind his mother.

"Mum, I'm not _gay_!"

Molly stiffened, startled. "You're not?"

Charlie gave up. Letting her go, he backed toward the kitchen table and allowed the laughter which bubbled through his chest to escape. Molly watched him, perplexed.

"Mum, I'm as straight as a broomstick, honest. Don't you think I would have told you by now if I were otherwise?"

Molly folded her arms, forgetting all about her cooking. Frowning, she advanced on him, as though in his haste to escape her, this was going to force the truth out of him in a frightened squeak. Instead, Charlie stayed where he was, concentrating on his breathing and holding his sides.

Finally, when she was standing directly in front of him, wooden spoon clutched in her right fist like a weapon, she seemed to relent. Charlie watched her face, marveling in the intricate emotions playing across it. Finally, she settled on the gentle-and-kind expression that seemed to be her default, and sighed.

"Charlie Weasley, you'd better be telling me the truth so help me Merlin…." She shook her head, as though mystified. "Bill _told_ me you weren't gay, but… but I said, well, he must be, Bill, because he's not got a girlfriend or a wife, like the rest of you did!"

Charlie rolled his eyes, moving over so that she had space to lean beside him. The table creaked in protest, but held steady.

"Mum, I just haven't met anyone who takes my fancy, that's all," he told her gently, slinging an arm about her shoulders. "Not many girls go off hunting dragons, and the ones that do aren't the sort I want to bring home to my mother, if you catch my meaning." He smiled ruefully.

Molly seemed settled but then … suddenly, without quite understanding why, Charlie found her clutching at the front of his shirt, as though she wanted to rip it off and take a good look at him, to make sure everything was where it should be, and that he was taking care of himself. An odd sort of desperation lit her eyes.

"But Charlie, I want grandchildren!"

"You've already _got_ grandchildren!" he replied, appalled. "Lots of them! _Loads_, even!"

Was this really all she wanted from him? _More babies? _Charlie shook his head in disbelief.

"I want you to get married, and settle down, Charlie! I want you to have children, and …. I want you to be happy!"

It seemed to take a lot for her to admit this; for the first time in his life, Charlie realised his mother was avoiding meeting his eye. He pushed himself forward, off the table, and turned to her, bracing his arms against her shoulders.

"There's all sorts of happy, Mum," he told her softly. "All sorts. And I don't want you to worry about me, all right? I'm perfectly happy as I am."

Molly stared at the floor, a little to the right of Charlie's shoe. She sniffed.

"OK, Mum?" he pressed, leaning forward to plant a kiss on her cheek.

"OK," Molly agreed quietly. She seemed to have nothing to say, which surprised him, because in his experience, Molly _always_ had something to say.

Charlie nodded. Well, he wasn't about to stand around and do the talking for the both of him. And actually, he wanted to find Bill, and thank him for standing up to their mother's nonsense….

"All right, then, Mum."

He let her go gently and moved toward the doorway. "I'm going to go help Bill with the tables."

But he didn't; he wanted to make sure she was all right, first. After a few moments, Molly seemed to collect herself. She straightened, sighing, and patted down her smoky ginger hair. This seemed to make her feel better; next thing, she was at the stove again, taking of lids and peering and sniffing and clanging the pots together. Charlie relaxed a little more, smiling. Then, all of a sudden –

"Mum!"

She turned, startled; he was already striding back into the room, grinning broadly.

"Charlie?"

"I never got around to telling you my good news," he told her warmly, eyes twinkling.

Molly seemed startled once more; clearly, she'd forgotten all about it. "Yes, dear?"

Charlie spread his hands a little, beaming. "Guess who's been promoted to Head Researcher at the Res?"

Molly's eyes widened, and she looked all at once exasperated and bursting with pride. Next thing he knew, she'd launched herself across the kitchen at him again, though this time her arms went around him softly, eagerly. Charlie returned his mother's embrace fondly, and planted a kiss on the top of her head.

"You know, I'll never stop worrying about you, don't you Charlie?" she murmured companionably, some moments later.

Charlie grinned. "I know, Mum. I know."

* * *

**Note: Ah, I had fun … (as usual). I fully appreciate that I broke format (again) but I don't particularly care… More importantly, I hope you enjoyed reading it, and as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts: reviews are most welcome!!**

**While I'm at it, thank you SO much to everyone who's left feedback over the course of this story. I've thoroughly enjoyed hearing and responding to your thoughts and opinions on such a diverse range of pairings. Thank you so much for sharing, it's truly been an experience!!**** Only one more to go, now …**

**Lexie**


	7. Nineteen Years Later

**Disclaimer: All characters, settings and ideas borrowed from the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling. I just play with her ideas.**

* * *

_Nineteen Years Later...  
_(the epilogue of an epilogue_)_

_"Who?"_

"Harry Potter," Harry repeated patiently. "I have a booking for ... well, all of us." He gestured to the large mass of people milling before the bar. The young witch simply blinked, gazing up at Harry's forehead with an expression of dumb incomprehension. He suppressed the urge to laugh at how easily he'd forgotten who he was, and thought ruefully that he probably should have asked Percy to organise.

"Harry!" Hannah Longbottom bustled through a doorway behind the bar, beaming. "Go and clear table three, Louise, I'll deal with this." She gently manoeuvred the girl away, smiling apologetically. "That time of year again, is it?" she joked cheerfully, catching her husband's eye in the crowd of people and smiling. "Come with me."

Harry smiled gratefully, gesturing for the rather large party, comprised mostly of Weasleys, to follow as he fell in step with Hannah.

"Did Neville tell you Luna's pregnant? She's expecting twins?" he asked conversationally.

"_What_?"

"Luna and Rolf."

"That's what I thought you said - _Pregnant_? _With twins?_" Hannah Longbottom let out a little laugh of disbelief as she led the rather large party of Weasleys up a small corridor beside the Leaky Cauldron's bar. "No, he didn't say - I never thought I'd hear that one!"

Harry Potter shrugged, smiling ironically. "You, them, his family, _us_ … _everyone_'s a bit surprised, I think. But there you have it! Gin says she's due in January. Apparently Luna asked us to let you know… She was a bit vague on who she'd actually told, you see."

Hannah raised her eyebrows merrily. "Was she just…?" she replied, in what seemed to Harry like a very accurate imitation of Luna herself, as she paused to wave them all into the private parlour.

"Come and join us, won't you, Han'?" Neville murmured, touching her arm lightly as he made his way inside.

Hannah rolled her eyes, smiling, and hurried off back down the corridor. Harry watched her go with a shake of his head. Between Neville, Alice, Apparating across the country to work everyday _and_ running the busiest hotel and bar known to the wizarding world (or at least, Britain), Hannah was the busiest person he knew. He had no idea how she did it…

"And I hope Alice wasn't too nervous this morning?"

Molly's voice interrupted his thoughts. Harry made his way into the room as Neville opened his mouth to reply.

"Not really – I mean, it's not like she's going too far away from home, or anything. It almost felt like a waste of time, having to come from Hogsmeade to Kings Cross, just so she could go back…"

Everyone was gathered around a long wooden table that ran the length of the room. The adults of his extended family sprawled down the length of the table, occasionally peppered by the younger children. They'd all just come from waving the older ones off to school at Kings Cross, and lunch at the Leaky Cauldron had become a bit of a tradition after this grand event each year; at first, to appease the children left behind, and then as their numbers had dwindled and the excuse with it, to take advantage of the rare opportunity for a family gathering.  
The walls were a plush shade of red that gave the impression of rich decadence, and glancing up along the table to where Molly sat at its head, he couldn't help but imagine briefly that she was taking court. It should have felt strange, to be surrounded by so many relatives when he'd been accustomed to having so few, but as his eyes traveled along the train of faces, he couldn't help but feel a strange sense of pride welling in the pit of his stomach. It didn't feel strange at all. These people, this family that he'd built for himself - Arthur and Fleur and Percy and Audrey and George and Angelina and Roxanne and Hermione and Ron and Hugo and Lily and Ginny and Neville and–

As Harry took his seat beside Ginny, Bill and Teddy slipped into the room; Bill's ears were red, and Teddy met Harry's eyes, grinning sheepishly.

Harry caught his arm, raising his eyebrows. "Been behaving yourself, I hear?" he murmured.

Teddy smiled. "Oh, enough. I'm not really in trouble… Fleur wasn't happy, so Bill sort of _had_ to say something, but …" Teddy shrugged, pausing. "Hold on – _how did you-?_"

"Oh, we _all_ know," Ron interrupted, grinning. Harry glanced around the silent table ruefully; they'd all been listening. Ron caught Harry's eye, winking. "No secrets here, mate – we probably should've warned you a few years back…"

"Teddy, are you going to marry Victoire?" Lily asked eagerly, turning to kneel in her seat and clutching at his shirtsleeve. She gazed up at him dreamily. "That would be _sooo_ romantic."

"No one eez marrying anyone," Fleur interrupted sharply from across the table, folding her arms.

Lily turned again to frown at her aunt's disapproval, but Bill leant over to kiss his wife's cheek, chuckling, and Fleur's expression softened quickly.

"Well _I_ think-"

"Shush, love," Audrey interrupted Percy fondly, patting his hand. "We know."

There was a slight pause, as his family waited for Percy to gather himself, and then-

Several different conversations erupted across the table at once: while Ron took the opportunity to rib Ginny across the table about sending her love to Neville, Fleur's lecture to both Bill and Teddy was drowned out by Arthur and George's enthusiastic discussion of George's new joke-shop line – developed after a lengthy consultation with Charlie - and Hugo and Lily had slipped out of their places and were standing together at the head of the table, deep in an animated conversation with Molly, who visibly twinkled with pleasure.  
At the same time, Percy leant forward to ask Harry why Draco Malfoy and his wife had been staring at him as they'd left the Platform; Harry shrugged absently, not in the mood for a conspiracy theory – he heard them enough at work – and Audrey, sensing Harry's discomfort, swiftly distracted her husband with a question about the Egyptian chicken scandal.

Angelina met Neville's eye across the table, laughing at his mystified expression. "Don't worry too much, Nev – I can't keep track half the time either."

Neville grinned good-naturedly. "You Weasleys, you like to complicate things."

"Tell me about it!" Hermione muttered, rolling her eyes as Ron leapt backwards, rubbing his leg and glaring. Ginny relaxed back against her chair, smiling, just as Hannah entered the room, preceded by several trays of jugs and glasses,

Harry gazed at the disarray fondly, murmuring something softly under his breath – so softly that only Ginny and Neville caught the afterthought.

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

**As so often happens with this story, this is a spur of the moment ending (and not the one I'd planned) but then again, had I planned it, I suppose it wouldn't truly be an 'afterthought', would it?**

**And so, we say goodbye to this little series of vignettes that I started on a whim and never dreamed would evolve into such a ... saga. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it, and a MASSIVE thanks to everyone who's read, reviewed and shared their opinions regarding this piece and the ideas it represents. You've really encouraged me to keep this going, and I've thoroughly enjoyed hearing your thoughts - I hope you continue to share them!!**

**Thanks again,**

**Lexie**


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